


Wooden Anvils

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [29]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Character Death, Confusion, Dreams and Nightmares, Sort of? - Freeform, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-07-18 23:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16128656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: You don't know why you are here, hardly remember anything at all really.And your shadow whispers, beckons.You heed its call.





	1. Up in flames

**Author's Note:**

> Something a little different, based off a weird ass dream I had awhile ago that got my mind to thinking so.
> 
> Guess I'll see how far it'll go.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative Title: Willow goes Super Saiyan, Wilson gets burned

The whole structure shivered, the low sound of creaking wood and steel beams, and his footsteps echoed, loud and hesitant as he looked about the place, passing half made rooms and into risen chambers, flashlight flickering over emptiness and unfinished interiors.

The wind whistled eerily past him, cold and heavy with coming winter storm, and Wilson shivered, huddled under his fur collared cloak as he continued onwards, hand wrapped tightly about his light and trying to not shake too much.

“Are you sure this is the right place?”

His question hung in the air, and a heavy gust of wind made him stop and weather the current, hunching his shoulders and attempting to not be blown away.

Sturdy he may be, but this high up and a misstep would end him.

Something quivered under his feet, briefly glancing down and flashing his light to the ceiling, his own thin, faded shadow rippling oddly. A moment passed before he felt a cold prick in the back of his mind and he pointed the light away, gritting his jaw and avoiding looking as the shade moved unnaturally.

It would always get to him, and it wasn't just because he couldn't explain it logically.

_“this is where you must be.”_

Hissed, almost near silent into his ear, and Wilson stifled the shudder up his spine, knuckles going white around the flashlight. The air was getting colder now, and his breath fogged in puffs of clouds, made everything feel even more eerie. 

Another gust of cold wind, through the uncovered beams and wooden stock walls, strong enough that he had to take a steadying step back, and when it let up he pulled his cloak from his face, teeth chattering as he attempted to wrap it about him better. When he spoke his voice was weak, stuttered almost, with how cold it was and how much it was starting to affect him.

“But Charlie, is this even...safe?”

No answer was given to him, and he realized that it was rather obvious that it wouldn't be safe up here. 

A half finished building set to be demolished in a few days, maybe a week or so, and warnings posted everywhere that proclaimed “trespassers will be prosecuted”.

It was a good thing no one was out here to guard the place, though if it was set to be leveled maybe no one wanted to bother. After all, he's already seen evidence of peoples work; graffiti, garbage, abandoned shopping carts full of worn out things. Even old fire pits, charred barrels empty save for ash.

People used to live, in this place, Wilson looking to the unsteady ceiling and exposed steel beams, wooden planks and old plaster. He shivered at the thought that, maybe, he'd have lived here even, if he had to.

But so far he's been very, very lucky. Letting the shadows steal for him was demoralizing in a way, but he didn't think he could handle this sort of living.

Well, he could, and he had when he was young, but nowadays it seemed like the worst possibility. From what he's heard in the whispers late at night, even death was easier.

A looming stairwell met with the beaming light, flashlight steady even as he shivered in the cold and dark. The pressure, the nudges in the back of his brain, the brief touches he felt along his shoulders and back, they were going to drive him into a panic if he didn't get this done soon.

Whatever ‘this’ even was, and he had a very vague idea at best. The thing lurking in his mind wasn't giving him any answers.

But then, was he even asking the right questions? He's always had a bad habit with that sort of thing.

The steel exposed and wooden planked stairs creaked under his steps, his weight not the deciding factor but just the age, the wear and tear he could see, in rust and slivers and cracks. Wilson shivered at one particularly loud snap under his feet, freezing for a moment and listening, wide eyed and tense as he waited for the whole building to fall right under his feet.

But no such thing happened, and there was only silence, and the billowing gusts of the wind.

How many stories high was he now? Wilson glanced suspiciously out to where the wood and metal structures laid bare, a naked skeleton without the walls and padding of a true building, but all he could see was darkness and the faint traces of the rest of the city, neon flashes and stars.

_“don't dawdle.”_

The whisper was right in his ear, goosebumps breaking over his skin as he shivered from both the words and the chilly air, and he nodded hastily, turning his attention back to climb. He had no time for wasteful speculation, after all.

When he reached the next landing, flashlight waved about to see that some wooden walls were in place, an almost protective cover to the winds, he let out a heavy sigh, shifting the cloak about himself, the fur lined collar soft and tinged cold around his neck. It was pure luck the damn thing didn't trip him up, what with how it must have been made for someone much taller than him.

Or at least at an average height, Wilson thought bitterly. But it was all he had for this cold, and truly? 

It was practically the only thing he owned, the one thing to his name besides the worn clothing on his back, and it was the shadows who gave it to him.

_“shhhh…”_

Wilson stilled, listening, as wind whistled outside of this relatively protected landing. His light focused on the ground, wood and metal practically thrown together in a hodgepodge of a flooring, and his brow furrowed at the scorch marks and blackened stains that littered about. Raising the flashlight, he eyed the streaks on the walls, billowing clouded stains.

Those looked remarkably like explosions, except very small, contained ones.

Something clanged ahead, rolling for a moment, and he tensed, listening hard as his mouth fell into a narrow line. There was no silence, after that; he could hear murmurs, muffled conversation, and through the incomplete walls the cracks flashed with yellow, orange light.

Someone else was here.

He almost voiced his concerns, but then there was muffled shout and instead he swallowed thickly, sweat collecting on his brow even with the chill of the air. The shadow at his back offered nothing, and the lack of anything was unnerving.

What was up here? Would it be a monster of some kind, some shadow, scary, abominable thing that would think nothing of squashing him? What was Charlie sending him into, so unprepared?

She couldn't be sending him to his death, right?

He wavered, hesitant, as the sounds quieted a bit, the light flickering from ahead and his own flashlight shaking ever so slightly. While he may be wasting time, there was no push behind him, no indication to him on what to do.

So, maybe he just had to...take matters into his own hands?

It made him anxious, made him want to turn around and leave, right now, but he was up here for a reason, he had been sent here for a reason, and he couldn't just flee, when he's not even seen what he was up against.

Hell, it might not even be too bad! Maybe this'll be easy.

Wilson didn't believe that for even a second, but it was something to latch onto and he quickly flicked off his flashlight. The light from this floor, flickering as it was and blocked by the thrown together walls, was still enough for him to creep forward by.

Stuffing the light into his pocket, Wilson huffed in a breath and wrapped his cloak tighter about himself, straightening up and steeling his will. The least he could do was catch a glimpse of the thing, and then he could decide if running was a far better option.

The floor thankfully didn't creak under his feet, wooden planks replaced with concrete slabs, though the wooden structures and posts showed off just how structurally unsound this floor was. Or the whole building really, and Wilson carefully tiptoed forward, taking the utmost care to not trip on anything or cause a stir. While the ground was covered in those sooty stains and marks, it was surprisingly empty of anything else. No garbage, no tools, nothing.

Whoever was up here was taking care of their space, that was for sure.

Whether or not that would help him wasn't clear at all, and neither did it shed light on who it even was.

Someone he knew, maybe?

But Wilson didn't know many people, not for a long while now, and the only name he had when he dug through his mind was Charlie's, and she was a given.

After all, she was his shadow. He'd not be forgetting that any time soon.

The place wasn't exactly a maze, but had the layout of an office building, opening into empty rooms and unfinished halls, the walls not even fully connected together. The light from whoever was here, probably a fire of sorts, helped him see exactly which room it was, and apparently the person had set up on the outskirts, not in one of the main chambers.

That'll help if he has to make a run for it at least.

Wilson jumped at a loud thump of noise, a muffled curse and stomping, freezing in place as he waited for it to quiet down.

The possibility of there being more than one person was there too, and it terrified him.

The recurring thought that he didn't even know _what he was supposed_ to do wasn't leaving him alone either, and all he could focus on was keeping his breathing steady and being as quiet as possible. 

Just get a quick look, he decided. Just a quick look, and then maybe Charlie would tell him what to do.

Otherwise...he had nothing.

The cold was lessened here, wind nonexistent besides the chill flowing through the cracks, but he was shivering under his cloak anyway, jaw gritted to keep his teeth from chattering. Locating the room was the east part, Wilson pressing his back to the wooden wall and watching the flickering light pouring out of the doorway at his side, taking deep, steadying breaths. It was unusually quiet now, but he could hear the crackle of the fire, probably in a barrel from the sound of it, and slowly he was getting his resolve up.

A quick peek, that was all. He'd not be caught from that, right?

He edged himself close, body tense, before slowly peeking around the corner.

The fire was indeed in a barrel, and it looked dangerously high, as if stacked with too much fuel. The rest of the room was strung about with things, empty cans, clothing, strips and crooked posters, and what appeared to be glitter streamers, confetti even, and if a sudden noise hadn't caught Wilsons attention he'd have thought the place was set up for some sort of celebration.

“Fuck yeah!”

Something shot across the room, the can hitting the wall on the other side and clanging to the ground. Flinching back for a moment, Wilson followed its trajectory back to the source.

The woman at the other end laughed, loud and obnoxious and almost maniacal, before giving a hoot of sound and kicking another can with almost too much force. There was something in her hand which she waved around, her pigtails swinging as she twirled about for a moment, a little wobbly and unsteady on her feet, and Wilson blinked at her, more than a little confused now.

It was just some...person. Just a homeless person, obviously celebrating something, and perhaps a little inebriated and hopefully not crazy.

Not some big scary monster, like what he had been expecting. 

What did Charlie want him to do here again?

The woman started to giggle, shaking her head as her speech slurred and was speckled by her ill contained laughter.

“Happy...Birthday to me, yeah!” She hopped over to her fire, and Wilson was able to get a quick look at the thing she was holding, waving about. “An’ fuck everyone else!”

It looked sort of a lighter, especially when she fiddled with it and a small flame clicked on and off, though it was rather bulky. A flower design decorated its side, a large daisy maybe, and he blinked at her from his not so hidden spot, watched as she practically danced around the barrel of flames, eyes only on the hungry fire.

He pulled back, the chill lessened so close to that heat, but still his breathed fogged from his mouth and he squinted his eyes, trying to think, a thin frown forming on his face. What was he even doing up here?

_“go say hello, dear.”_

The shadow under his feet withered unnaturally, completely ignoring the laws of light and dark, and he looked down upon it as he felt a gaze raise up to meet his, a cold sting in the back of his mind.

_“it is her birthday today.”_

Even if he couldn't see it, not right now, in this place, Wilson shivered at the feeling of the shadow grinning at him.

_“and you are invited.”_

And then she was gone, the ground empty save its blackened marks and stains. His shadow dissipated in the dark, without a light source, and the fog on his breath very suddenly disappeared.

Curling his hands into his cloak, fingers digging into the large fur collar for a mere moment, Wilson closed his eyes, took a steadying breath, and got a hold of his nerves.

He now had an objective. It was time.

A narrow, crooked frowned face met his the moment his eyes opened.

The woman tapped her foot as he squeaked out a sound similar to a trumpets squawk and stumbled back into the wall he had been hiding behind, almost tripping over the hem of his cloak in a blind panic.

“An’ what the fuck are you doing here, shorty?”

She didn't sound very happy, a tight lipped frown looming over him, and Wilson quickly righted himself, a bit mildly flustered at the fact that she was taller than him and that she knew it, from the way she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes.

Not to mention the demeaning word. As if he hasn't been called that before.

“Just, just stopping by, is all!” He sounded nervous, he knew he did, that high pitched tone creeping into his voice, cracking for a moment, and he coughed into his fist, trying to clear his throat as the woman continued to glare at him. “I heard there was a, uh, party of some sort going on?”

He wavered under her look, not able to read her whatsoever, like a brick wall set in front of him, her hands on her hips and practically leering. “Someone's, um, birthday, I think?”

“And who invited you, hmm?”

Wilson had no answer to that, wouldn't have any, he knew no one in the area or really anything about this place, and he couldn't just say that his _shadow_ invited him! He didn't have an invite either, nothing physical, what was he even supposed to say!?

For a few moments she left him hanging in nervous panic, trying to think of anything, anything at all to say.

And then she let out a bark of laughter, snorting as she slapped her knee and shook her head at his surprised, frozen, deer-caught-in-headlights look. Her obnoxious response caught him off guard completely, and he hadn't even noticed that she had sauntered over to his side until a hand slapped him on the back with a little too much force.

“Oh my god, you're a riot, you know that?”

His stumble forward from her “pat”, which didn't deter her in the slightest, and she grinned, crooked and perhaps a mite mad, as she practically herded him into the room with her hazardous fire and strewn about items.

“I'd thought this was shaping up into a pretty great B-day and here you come along, sayin’ someone invited ya!”

She laughed, harder and almost with tears in her eyes, finally letting go of his shoulder as he looked about the room fully, making an attempt to not look as if he was snooping.

Which he most certainly was doing, but this lady didn't need to know that.

“I, uh. Happy birthday, then?” He sounded dreadfully nervous, but she barely even gave him a glance, instead making her way to a table on the opposite side of the fire. More things cluttered its surface, mostly paper it looked like, all crumbled up and a few even burned on the edges. There were no bottles, but cans littered underneath it, the ones he had seen her kick around only a few from the many. Plastic bags too, catching his eye, though he had little idea what could be in them.

Food, maybe? Or something more flammable, matches and firecrackers. Those sooty marks outside this room had to have come from somewhere, and he was fairly certain the workers, long gone now, wouldn't have dabbled in explosives when in such an unstable building. He had half a mind to try and convey that to the lady, but when he looked over to her she was watching him with narrowed eyes, calculating and very, very different from the obnoxious attitude from earlier.

But then she snorted, shaking her head with a mocking smile on her face, and Wilson schooled his face into a tight lipped, neutral expression, though from how he felt it might as well have been a confused frown.

“Thanks, I guess.” She scavenged about her table, flipping about papers and bumping cans out of the way, though it looked more as if she was just distracting herself rather than actually looking for something. “But you didn't even get me a birthday present, bub. That's kinda sad, ya know.”

Wilson had completely forgotten about that part of the celebration ritual. It hadn't even crossed his mind, and for a moment he had the distinct moment, as the woman side eyed him, that she was snickering at him. As if she was telling some sort of in joke, and he wasn't a part of it but was certainly at the brunt of it.

I, uh….” he dug through his brain, trying to think of an excuse, of any sort. “...I didn't know what you'd like, so I didn't get anything to not severely disappoint you!”

Even to his ears it sounded weak, but somehow she actually bought into it, another shake of her head and wide, crooked grin splitting her face.

“Pff, that's just like you, isn’t it? But then, you'd probably get me something stupid and lame, like always.”

Wilson had no idea what the lady was talking about, but he'd already come to the conclusion that perhaps she had a few screws loose and decided to not try to clear up any misunderstandings. If she thought she knew him, then all the better! It would make his job way easier.

She didn't give him a name, and he didn't offer up his, though as she kicked a few things around and attempted what looked to be a minor clean up it seemed as if names were the least of either of their worries. Perhaps, Wilson thought, she believed she already knew his name. What with how this was shaping up into, him talking to a mad, buzzed stranger in an unsteady, unfinished building, he didn't think that was too far from truth. 

He wondered, briefly, if he should make up a name for her himself. In the back of his mind something chuckled quietly, coldly, a shiver up his spine, and Wilson dismissed the idea.

Don't get distracted, he reminded himself. There was no time for that.

Finally the woman found what she must have been searching for, the bulky lighter from earlier having been apparently been tossed to one corner of the room. A cold breeze blew through, shallow, though Wilson tightened his grip on his cloak either way. There was an opening to the wooden thrown up walls, and he could see the night darkness and the lights from the city, spreading out in the distance. It must have been planned to be a balcony of sorts, almost like a doorway, and the streamers flung about shifted from the cold wind slipping into the room.

“So, it's been a couple of years, yeah?” She glanced over to him, not meeting his eyes, and made her way to her barrel fire, gait a little more steady than before. 

“Uh, yes.” He floundered, thankful that her eyes were elsewhere. Making conversation was never his forte, that was for sure. Taking an uneasy glance around, that cold breeze once more trying to ease through his cloak, Wilson hesitantly followed behind her.

It was almost surprising, how welcome the fire felt with its heat, and he couldn't help the sigh he exhaled, shuffling closer and shivering as the warmth washed over him.

“Pretty great, huh?” The woman was watching him, startling him out of his empty thoughts, pale eyes narrowed as she seemed to examine him. “I'm getting better at makin’ them.”

She waited for his response, looking him up and down for a few moments as he continued his silence, holding her gaze before she turned back to her fire, perhaps finding him lacking, at least from the way she frowned. He startled when she raised her hand, fingers splayed, stretched to the fire, and he almost voiced his concern as she reached, leaned ever so slightly.

But she stopped short, before the flames could lick her fingers, outstretched, a moment of silence as she stared deep into the core of heat and burning fuel. 

Then she pulled back, hand hanging limp at her side as she sighed, almost heavily and burdened. 

“You not much of a talker then, are ya?”

Wilson made a nervous sound, almost like a stutter of trumpeted surprise, but got a hold of himself. Of course he wasn't a conversationalist; he hasn't talked to anyone but his shadow for months, and that surely couldn't be compared to human interaction!

“I...do not have much to say.” He paused, waited for a response, anything, but was greeted by silence and felt the urge to fill it, if for only a moment. “I'm sorry, I don't really mean to put a damper on your party.”

That cold sting in his head chuckled, silent and frozen stiff, ice crawling down his spine, but he stubbornly ignored it.

The lady blew a raspberry, startling him with the sudden sound, and she wasn't looking at him but over the flames, eyes unfocused and face blank, walled off.

“It's alright. No one ever shows up to my parties anyway, so this is already better than all the other birthdays I've had.” After a moment she snorted, shaking her head with a thin smile going crooked on her face. “So far, this is actually the best one yet.”

That was an odd thing to say, and Wilson was frowning ever so slightly. The curious nig of thought, of his own birthdays, of years passed, was trying to get his minds attention but he felt more that he needed to focus on the present, not the past.

“I'm sure that's not true!” He stammered, words sticking for a moment at the look she shot him, equal mixes of curiosity and superstition. “I-I mean, there had to be a time where it was better than, than all this, surely.”

Wilson half heartedly gestured about, gaze sweeping the discarded rubbish and forgotten bags, the messiness of this one room, or the whole building in fact. 

“And I'm certain there had been someone else, at one point, who had been better company than myself…”

His voice faded, growing uncomfortable under her unwavering eye, pale and narrowed, and for a second he felt like he was missing a very critical clue in all this.

But the moment passed, the cold sting in his spine easing away, and he was back to trying to pacify a stranger, whom he knew nothing of, in an old, unstable building.

She watched him, silent, and he feared for a moment that maybe he had said the wrong thing, that now was the time he was going to be kicked out of this rather lackluster party.

Then she shook her head again, a light, almost fake sounding laugh before she turned away.

“You're really full of yourself, you know? Whatever happened to wanting to stay humble, huh?”

Her laugh after that was more genuine, possibly because of his confused face and expression, but she waved her hand almost in dismissal. 

“Don't worry about it. It'll sort itself out, you can bet your ass it will.”

Wilson felt as if he was missing something from this whole interaction, as if there were words being said just out of his hearing that would turn the conversation into something more comprehensible. But nothing greeted him besides this uneasy, weary air between them, the woman turning away and letting out a heavy sigh.

He quietly shrugged off the feeling, looking away briefly as he tugged his cloak about him tighter, fur collar comfy about his neck. Even with the fires heat, it felt as if something cold and sodden had creeped in, watching balefully at his lackluster attempts to continue a meaningful conversation.

But it wasn't all on him. He had little idea what this lady wanted of him, and intruding in her space was making him uncomfortable.

Wilson wanted to go home, but his shadow wouldn't let him leave if he really, truly wanted to. Not to mention he didn't have a home to begin with.

“Hey, have you ever been this high up?” She didn't even glance at him, but he followed her line of sight and found himself looking out to where that unmade balcony was, another slow breeze of chilly ice brushing the streamers and making the flames huff, still too strong to gutter or go out. “It's really something to see sometimes. Sunrises are great.”

A moment of silence, as he organized his thoughts together, and just as he was about to give an answer she half turned to him, a wave of her hand and almost cheeky grin, crooked, splitting her face.

“Come on, let me show ya the sights! I'm a host, aren't I?”

With that she twirled around, practically skipping past the barrel of fire and hopping over the objects littering the floor, and Wilson wavered a moment before trailing after her and her swinging pigtails. He knew he wasn't being the most pleasant of uninvited guests, and she seemed to be trying, really trying, so he should at least do so in turn. It was the polite thing to do, anyway.

The doorway opened into almost darkness, the moon near full overhead, and the city lights spread out underneath, long and flat and going so far as to disappear into the darkness. From even here, leaning ever so slightly passed the safety of the room, Wilson watched the dots of light, cars flying about the darkness, so small and insignificant in his eyes. In the distance he caught the sound of sirens, the low droll of a helicopter as it drifted far, far away.

_”they are not looking for you.”_

He shivered, glad that a cold gust of wind covered his obvious strike of fear and minor disgust, the darkness out here lightened by the moon but not fully, and something flickered near him, a bright spark that made him almost stumble back into the lit up room.

The womans face grinned at him, crooked and almost wicked, but in an all too human manner. 

Wilson has seen a shadows grin, and nothing in this world could ever compare to that, no matter how hard it tried. Spooky, but the lady was no shadow.

She laughed, a lot lighter and truer than earlier, and he let the smallest of pale smiles grace his face, chuckling nervously as he shifted his weight side to side. No need to let her know such things, after all.

“Sometimes it really is beautiful, out here. I never imagined it would be like this, you know?” She looked him in the eye, the lighters little flame flickering warmth over her face, before turning away, taking a few steps closer to the blank, unprotected edge, head tilted upwards to the dark sky and its moon. “Almost better than I ever hoped for.”

The pause, just fogged breath as a cold wind blew past them, Wilsons cloak flapping at its entrance even as he drew it tighter to himself, her pigtails whipping behind her at its low howl, and for a brief moment, the briefest of moments, Wilson was struck with a bizarre wave of nostalgia, familiarity. For a moment, just a second of time, he felt as if he should know her, as if he did know her, as if the both of them have known each other for years and years.

But the moment passed, unhindered and silent, and he shivered in his overlarge cloak, hunching in on himself from both cold and biting confusion, his own willpower the only thing keeping him together and still here, not rushing down the steps to the earth below, hands clasped to his ears to ignore the whispers ringing in his very head.

He felt the cold slide of ice in the back of his brain, oozing down his neck and spine, the cold lingering as it seemed to seep into his very bones, deep into his marrow, and he had the dizzying sense of not being all there, as if his very body was not all his own. 

A few inches to the left, he thought blurrily. He's felt this before, but the memory was no comfort and his hands shook, gritting his teeth.

Unknowing to his predicament, his companion held tight to her lighter and looked out, over the city and to the pale moon, feeling a swell of something she's missed. It was so nice, to be alive.

That cold was taking over, again, and thoughts not all his own bled into his mind, knowledge not all his seeping together, and if he looked down he'd have seen his shadow, or some sort of mockery of it, withering tendrils as it tucked under his cloak and started its leeching climb.

_”it is time. you have done so well, Wilson.”_

He shuddered at the voice in his ears, knowing already that the lady before him heard none of it, none whatsoever, and his gut turned and mind revolted against the impossibleness of it all, but knowing already that there was nothing he could do to fix it.

How many times must this happen, he thought, shuddering as he brought his shaking hands to his face, nothing different and yet everything changed. And why now, of all times?

She was going to notice, and he clasped his jaw tight, breathing quick and as silent as possible, the winds wails masking his desperation. The lady was still at the edge, at the paramount of the wood and steel balcony, the edge of the world, and Wilson very suddenly knew why he was here.

No!

_”take a step dear, and then take another. it is time.”_

Fighting against his body was impossible, and silent, stiff and yet tense, Wilson was brought one step closer to the womans back, to the edge of the platform.

I don't want this!

_”you know that to be untrue. you are so close now.”_

He was, arms shaking as something beyond him brought them up, as if he was a puppet on a string. The wind blew heavy now, strong gales, as if in anticipation.

He was stilled, the breath caught in his throat as the cold grew solid, frozen stiff, and then very suddenly it receded, drew back so fast as to steal the breath from his lungs. For a moment, arms still raised and shaking terribly, feeling as if a single push would shove him over without hindrance, Wilson looked upon the lady's back turned to him, this woman who had taken him as an uninvited guest to her birthday party, whom he knew nothing of besides the vague familiarity, the vagueness of something else, just out of reach.

He knew her, but also didn't. And that was enough for him to know what he did not want.

But shade held sway, tangled in his very shadow, twisted about his roots, and even without their icy arms tugging, controlling his own, they both knew what he was about to do.

He hesitated, at the lack of voice, at the lack of anything but his own ragged breathing, a brief spell where the wind died down, if only for a moment.

_**‘do it!’** _

The shout was ringing, vibrating in its shriek, and it was a different voice, a differing tone, a moment where he knew it wasn't her, it wasn't Charlie speaking to him, but then it was too late and he jerked forward, shoved his arms out against a solid back and thus to commit an unforgivable deed.

But his hands met air, a rush and duck underneath his arms, and very suddenly Wilson was pinwheeling as his balance left him to teeter on the edge of the world.

For a brief, heart stopping moment, the lights of the city blurred in a viciously cold gust of wind, gut dropping at the vertigo and raw, shocking spread of fear in his chest.

The dark ground, an empty maw of nothingness, gaped at him, and he had the distinct, disassociated feeling that it was looking back up at him as he was doing to it.

And then ice cold tendrils wrapped about his ankles, shot up his legs and tugged at his cloak in tiny, dark grasping claws, and he stumbled back, gasping and eyes wide as his heart pounded in his chest, hard enough as if it wanted to burst out.

“I knew it, I knew it, you little motherfucker!”

Wilson barely had a moment to draw in breath, grasp his shaking will from a near death experience, barely any time to control his scattered, panicked mind, before a fist suddenly met the side of his face and he was crashing down, the cold steel floor breaking his fall.

“I knew I couldn't trust you, fucking hell, I just knew it!”

The woman glared down at him, hands curled into shaking fists, the lighter held in one of her clenched hands, and Wilson was still trying to catch his thoughts into order, that icy cold feeling having left him fully now, detached from both mind and body.

“Another birthday gone and ruined, ya know, and I really should have expected that.” Her voice had evened out, emotionless as her eyes grew distant, pale and empty, before they snapped back to him as he raised a hand to his face, wincing at the soreness.

He was a rather sturdy guy, and he knew that well, but she really could pack a punch!

Something flickered on her face, too fast for him to read or understand, and very suddenly her eyes hardened and the very air grew thick, hot and angry even as the wind rushed about them, howling against this unfinished tower raised high above the city.

“You little bitch.” she practically hissed, teeth bared at him in a crooked snarl, and it was enough to have him scramble back, past the doorway and back into the room, though he kept his eyes glued to her shaking form. “You're gonna have hell to pay for this.”

The moment she took that first step forward was the moment Wilson realized that he had well and truly fucked up.

He hardly had time to scramble to his feet, almost straightened up as he attempted to sprint away, but with a sudden howl of rage she was upon him. Her weight knocked him off balance for a second time tonight, hands going for his throat, and it was only his own unbalancing that instead had her fingers clenching into his cloak, the both of them tipping forward as he got a good, all too close look at her rage twisted face. The heat from her was sudden and surprising and almost _inhuman_ , different from the barrel of fire in the middle of the room, and it was instinctive to start struggling even before they hit the ground, his hands shoving at her face as his own expression grew panicky.

There was no time to converse with the shadows, no time to draw them together, no time for anything at all. It was the first time he's ever been in such a direct confrontation, and even with no experience Wilson absolutely knew this wasn't normal.

Her grip _burned_ , hand latching onto one of his wrists as she wrestled him down, only the overlarge cloak keeping her distracted enough to allow him more time to struggle. Her every breath was like steam, a horrid snarl down at him as they fought, and for a moment he was able to bet a good look at her eyes, a flash of a moment where he stilled in terror.

The pale aspect was gone now, and it was too late, realizing the lack of pupils, the white hue, had been a sign he had completely missed. Now, faced with raw rage, hurt and anger and everything in between, Wilson was staring into blazing pits of open flame, burning unhindered and charring, spreading in cracks from the womans hollow eye sockets.

The realization was late enough still that the uncomfortably warm, tight grip on his wrist had been forgotten, but suddenly it was sharp, stinging blind pain, a sear and red as he shrieked, kicking his legs and somehow, under the unpredictableness of it all, Wilson found himself scrambling away as she tumbled back with a scream of her own.

He was up, the world wavering as he held his mind numbingly burned wrist close to his chest, hunching as he pressed himself to the steel plate wall, eyes only on the woman - no _living flame_ \- that raged at him from the other side. The barrel of fire had somehow gotten between them, and it sent a hellish tinge over the room when combined with the crackling, spreading fire that ripped over her face, over her very skin, where her eyes had once been just flame now.

A glance at his wrist showed him what he had feared; burned flesh, in the shape of a hand, fingers having pressed red, raw marks into his very skin, and he jerked at the sudden high pitched, raw laughter that giggled out over to him.

She laughed at him, grin crooked and seared across her charring, cracking flesh, living flame bursting out in her cackles, smoke all but pouring from the light seeping from her skin. An arm was raised towards him, index up and pointing even as, from here, he could see the charcoal black spread of burned, ashen flesh overtake her fingers, spread up in lightning strike paths up her wrist.

“You done fucked up, shorty.” Somehow the smirk on her flaming face grew wider, as if to split her head with blazing fire, eyes widening in orange and yellow, red gouts. “An’ I'm gonna send ya to hell for that. Say hi to Charlie for me.”

Wilson hardly had a moment to even process what she had said before she lunged at him, barely missing the barrel by a few inches as she slammed once more into him. The ensuing heat wave, hot and suffocating as it rolled off of her, the sight of the woman's very skin fraying and curling in blackened shattered cracks, it was enough to shock him into falling with her, those charcoal flame encrusted hands grabbing for his throat.

Hitting the ground, hard, jarred him from his empty shock however, and once more the woman attempted to pin him down, wrestling and easily overpowering him with her size and weight.

Damn his fears, especially now with them being validated! He was going to be burned to a crisp, if she didn't strangle him first!

His fear shot through him at the heat that was currently on top of him, sweltering and burning, struggling and attempting to not touch her yet try to throw her off once more, so it took a moment to realize something.

He hadn't caught fire yet, not even with this bulky cloak of his in her very hands.

She seemed to realize this at the same time, burning hands cracked with charred flesh clutching dark striped fabric in her fingers, and for a moment she stilled, not even looking at him now.

It gave him a moment to cringe at the smell of burning skin, cooking flesh and the sight of the woman's face near consumed by glowing hot cracks, rips and tears as her hair started to turn to ash, but then she jerked her head up and there was a snarl, a horrible, flame pouring snarl, something he could only liken to molten lava oozing from her charred, broken lips. 

“How dare you.”

Before Wilson could formulate a response she shot up, jerking him up with enough force to snap at his spine, his neck, and without warning shoved him back into the wall. The force of the slam had his head connecting, a shock of stars and ringing in his ears as he stumbled and tried to grab a hold onto the wall, legs trembling underneath him. 

The smell of charred, burning meat mixed with the nauseating smoke of hair catching fire was a wave, a cloud that filled the room, and there was literal smoke pouring off of the woman now, from the smouldering pits that had been her eyes to the tips of her blackened fingers. The smell rolled Wilsons gut, fighting the gag in his throat at cooking flesh, at the horrid sight. 

For her part, the lady did not seem daunted that she was fully on fire now, her very body corroding before his eyes. 

“So we're playing it like that, yeah?” Even her voice was becoming distorted, heaved and cracked and sore, all too loud as smoke and steam hissed from her lips along with the white hot glops oozing down her chin. “You think you can get away with cheating, just like that, huh?”

Her grin made him flinch, Wilson finally getting the ringing in his ears to ease ever so slightly as he slowly, carefully started to shuffle towards the doorway that led to the rest of this floor, to the stairs and away, away from this place and this monster and whatever the hell Charlie’s plans even were. She had no eyes, no pupils to follow him, but her head slowly turned, kept him locked in her sights, and her face split even more into a wide, almost screaming grin, flame all but pouring out of her with every huff of steam and smoke.

Wilson tensed, expecting her to cackle, expecting her to lunge once more at him. The only thing he could think of that had protected him at all was the cloak, unsigned and unmarked, laden over his shoulders with its all too long sleeves rolled to his elbows, completely, utterly normal looking besides being on his shorter frame. He couldn't take a moment to have a look at it, couldn't risk taking his eyes off the burning woman grinning at him, but he clenched at it tightly, drawing it close even in this suffocating heat. The smoke was starting to billow, his eyes watering as he shakily took a few more steps to the exit, as the woman grew silent, thoughtful.

“...Two can play at that game.” Her voice was even rougher now, gargled out as the ooze fell from her lips, sizzling onto the cement floor. Little fires were starting, catching from the drizzle of white hot lava that splattered from her hanging mouth, the trash and streamers spitting with flame and smoke. The room, once almost cozy, was now a steaming oven, one that Wilson was now starting to wish he had never entered.

He was nearing the doorway, nearing the point where he could make a break for it, the back of his head where he had hit the wall aching dully now, and he froze when the woman moved, ready for that sprint.

But instead of taking another stab at grappling with him, she spun away, pigtails almost completely gone, flame replacing them and eating away the hair left on her cracking, charing head. Her footsteps left crackling marks, blackened puffs of smoke, and Wilson was fighting the coughs in his throat, the stinging of his eyes, trying to decide on if fleeing was the better option when her eyes were not on him.

But then she stopped by the table, heat waves flushing off of her and the debris around her starting to catch, and the expression she made towards him couldn't even be called a grin with how much of her lips and cheeks were degrading away. The plastic bags at her feet were burning black, melting, but she locked gazes with him before bending down, slowly, and digging out the containers hidden inside.

For a long moment, Wilson had no idea on what she even had in her hands.

Her face splitting grin was becoming something much, much more literal now, and with a hop, flame trailing almost elegantly behind her, the thump of her weight making him flinch and take a half step into the wall behind him, and the woman almost theatrically twirled in front of her barrel fire, the flames inside holding no candle with her own. From here, the fire now starting to catch more vigorously, an urgency he could feel in his limbs but his feet frozen to the ground, Wilson could see that her clothes were finally, finally starting to catch, curling on the edges as her living flame body curled and spat under the fabric.

Then she held up the container in one jerking fast movement, letting it hang in her flame hands, the shriveled, blackened remains of her fingers curling tightly around the handle. 

And Wilson could, very clearly, see the recognizably red and heavy shape, the label fraying and catching even with its big white lettering flaring out one last, dying message.

She smiled at him, almost sweetly, a tilt of her head.

He didn't even give her a chance to speak, was already out the door, down the maze like halls, sprinting to those steps that led downwards, to safety.

He didn't even have time to think about it, and absolutely did not have time to process the whispers of the dark, disappearing as the flames and its light spread, urging him onwards.

It took less time going back than going forward, especially with him not trying to watch his step or quiet his footsteps, and the stairwell was in sight, the heat and smoke trailing behind him, slow and steady and choking, stinging as he held his breath, put on another burst of speed, because-

If he didn't get out now-

If he was in the blast radius-

_If he was anywhere near that room when she dropped that canister-_

There was a dull rumble, shaking the whole structure around him, Wilson tripping on his own feet just as he teetered over the top step, and he chanced a glance behind him, wide eyed and running on adrenaline, stress, flight or fight response.

The air rippled, roared, and a roiling wall of flame surged towards him, completely consuming the wooden infrastructure and cloaking over the steel and concrete slabs.

His legs twisted under him, stumbling and then waving his arms as his balance abandoned him suddenly, briefly, and then Wilson found himself falling, back hitting the steps hard as the flames wailed over him, bursting outwards in a wave.

He didn't really have the time to even appreciate the fact that he had avoided it, bouncing down the stairs and trying to scramble up, to try and break his fall without snapping anything, and by the time he had landed on the bottom his whole body was sore and bruised and he stayed like that for a few seconds, momentarily paralyzed as he stared at the ceiling, took in a few fast, panting, gasping breaths.

He was having way too many near death experiences today.

But he didn't have much time to think about that right now; the fire was spreading, and so was the smoke. Wilson had to get out of here.

Standing up, a little shakily, he had to raise a hand to try and help keep the smoke from him. His shorter stature seemed to help, but it still stung his eyes and he found himself coughing heavily into his arm, the cloak heavy and too warm on him as he tried to remember which way was the exit downwards. He had more flights to go, and who knew how fast an old decrepit building like this would take to go up in flames.

He didn't know what had happened with the woman; that close, and on fire herself, and he really didn't think she survived that, at least intact anyway. The thought of it sent a shiver up his spine as he made his way past the skeletal structures, skirting the fire as it crawled from above to below, and the heat wasn't too unbearable just yet. The howling wind, blowing right through the empty walls, was guttering the flames, though it won't deter it for long.

Especially since it was now a gasoline fire. 

That reminded him, as Wilson finally found the stairs through the steadily growing smoke, didn't she have other plastic bags up there full of stuff?

He was safely down the flight of steps by the time the building started to rumble again, and he had the split second insight to brace himself against one of the few walls and its support beam.

Being a flight below seemed to help this time, Wilson barely stumbling as the explosion rocked the above floors, but he caught sight of the flaming debris as chunks of the building were flung out into the abyss below. Shrapnel, and Wilson wondered if there was anymore of that floor even left.

But then he remembered that there had been more flights above, the tower massive and tall.

The buildings walls vibrated under his hands, a low creaking growl growing deep in its beams, and Wilson took a deep breath of air, attempted to not cough on the bitter smoke, and started off once more, this time with a little more urgency. His legs were screaming at him now, and being flung around from early was starting to catch up to him too.

“I never want to do this again.” he snarled out, not minding that he wasn't whispering, glancing down a moment to watch his flickering shadow as the growing flames threw their light everywhere. He got no reply, no answer, and the fear and adrenaline from early was draining into something a little more red hot and angry. “Whatever it is you are doing, I want no part in it.”

Still no answer, no excuses, and Wilson pushed his frustration aside, catching sight of the flames as they flickered and caught on the trash and wooden planks, licking steel beams as the fire spread. He wasn't out yet, and he needed to remember that.

He had only taken a few steps forward, eyes squinted as he looked for the signs of an exit, before there was a new noise.

High pitched, shrieking, getting closer, and Wilson had a sudden shot of fear as he spun around, trying to find the source as the scream became clear.

All he saw was a streak of red, orange and yellow that barreled down the stairs with inhuman speed, the scream pitching as it charged towards him.

Something like arms reached out towards him, flames and smoke and the faint, faint hints of what looked like blackened bones, and Wilson was able to catch the hoarse, scratchy voice just as it slammed into him.

“It's you or me!”

The heat wave was different, worse than before, and he was already stumbling back, the weight of the fire shoving him down as the flames clawed and licked over his drawn close cloak, hardly leaving a mark. Hitting the ground, hard, sent stars in his vision as the aching in the back of his head stung with new pain, but even as he choked on smoke and screaming flame Wilson was able to now see exactly what was under those flames.

A skull grinned down at him, burnt black and grey, jaw unhinging as the flames coating it seemed to wither like a living thing, and ruined clothing hung from its frame in smoking, charing shreds.

For a moment, he wasn't able to do anything, struck frozen as skeletal hands grappled at his cloak, trying to open it up against his own grip.

Then the reality of it sunk in, at least the part where his own death was becoming inevitable, and Wilson found himself struggling, kicking and ignoring the burning heat as it tried to catch on him. Bony fingers grasped onto the fur collar, fire licking but sliding off like water from a duck's back, and suddenly it jerked his head up, neck twinging as he was brought dizzily close to a charred skull, pearly teeth flecked with ash, and then he was slammed back down, head connecting to the concrete ground with a gasp. Stars and static buzzed in front of his eyes, blurring the smoke and fire, and it took a moment to get a hold of his senses just as he was brought up once more. This time he had it in him, the sting as he finally flung his hands against the bony, clothing strung ribcage in an attempt to shove the monster off of him, to shake its grasp from his cloaks collar.

Surprisingly, it worked, the bones clattering as flame was flung from him, and his very palms stung and burned but he was already scrambling away, keeping the cloak covering him as much as possible. He didn't have to see it to hear it move, fire crackling and the broken odd clicks and clacking of brittle bones, another hoarse scream, and at that point Wilson didn't even know what was going on.

First a woman catching fire, _becoming_ fire, somehow, and now-

A living corpse, or at least a moving one. That wasn't right, that wasn't logical, that was impossible, and yet Wilson's hands burned and he was far too shaken to even try to look at what had happened to them, was far too afraid.

If there were anymore words spoken he couldn't understand them, and he certainly didn't stick around long enough to try, taking off once more for the stairs down, an exit from this madness. 

The thing screamed after him, too fast, and he could practically feel its blackened hands trying to catch a grip on his too long cloak as it flapped behind him, doing his best to take sharp turns about steel pillars and smoking skeletal doorways, but the smoke was getting thicker and it was getting harder and harder to breathe.

It was his own legs that tripped him up this time, eyes watering as he tried to see where he was going, panting and coughing just as he stumbled and went down again, and that overbearing heat wave started to bare down upon him once more. Adrenaline spiked through him, sore limbs and pounding head ignored as he tried to crawl away, towards the bursts of cold, fresh air, wind gusting through the buildings aflame stilts.

He didn't know where he was, didn't know where the stairs were, could see hardly anything in the thick smoke, but when he felt the presence of, of whatever the _hell_ that was behind him, glowering, Wilson turned himself about as best as he could, back against the steel flooring and the cloak held as best as he could over him with one hand, the other trying to keep him moving backwards. It was useless to stand up at this point, not with the smoke pouring off of the living flame leering down at him, not with how it felt as if he could hardly breath even down like this.

He could see the faint blurry impression of its skull, jaw unhinged and grinning as it tilted its head, rough crackling gargles as what could be words fell from it, but he didn't understand, felt a drop in his belly at the sight of it, frozen by fear and terror and the sheer improbability of it being here at all.

Wilson did hear, however, when it laughed.

And then it leapt at him, empty eye sockets dark and filled with blackened bone, cooked into ash flesh, the wave of heat and flame, its bony arms outstretched and grasping for his bare throat.

And Wilson didn't quite know what happened, but there was an ice cold spike in the back of his brain and the panic and fear broke for just a second, and he moved.

The cloak wrapped about him as he rolled out of the way, flames licking and grasping almost desperately at him.

He caught a glimpse of the things ashen bone face, the jerk of its head on blackened vertebrae, eye sockets dark and empty, fire blasting unnaturally all about it as it streaked by him.

There was no scream, only a harsh gust of cold wind from the balcony he had ended up on, the dark abyss as smoke rose from the towers burning insides.

And Wilson laid there in silence for a moment, only the wind and the fires crackling about him, cloak still wrapped about his short frame and trying to gulp in the fresh air, trying to catch his breath.

It took a moment for it to set in that the, the creature, human?, had thrown itself off the edge of the world, leaving him behind.

He carefully sat up, untangled himself from the spotless cloak, the fur collar not even dirtied about his neck, and got himself to his weary feet, everything aching and feeling far away. Then he shuffled over to the edge, to look down, to the not so far away ground. 

He had almost made it, it looked like; a couple more flights and he'd be out of here.

The fire was illuminating the yard around it, left behind pipes and steel bars, trash and dirt, and, now, the black, crumbled mark in a vague humanish shape.

For one absurd, vague moment, Wilson felt as if he should join her.

And then the bubble that had surrounded his brain popped and he was back to himself, stumbling away from the edge as his hands started to shake, reality setting in. The fire and smoke still poured from the insides of the building, gaze jerking over the flames and flickering light, and he still had to get out of here.

A few flights, a few stairwells, he thought, even as his knees grew weak at the thought, everything feeling fragile and vaguely shaky. His own shadow wavered, thin and bombarded by the light, and Wilson gathered himself, or at least enough of himself to raise the cloak over his mouth and nose, squinting his eyes as he entered the hellfire once more.

It turned out, finding the stairs was much, much easier when not being chased down by a flaming skeleton. 

The thought was almost funny, until he remembered the dark shape he had seen from the balcony, each step of the steel stairs down making his joints scream. 

She looked so much smaller, from up here.

Feeling his feet hit ground floor, after so long being up high and surrounded by licking fire and smoke, was almost enough relief to drop him to his knees. His body was shaking enough for it, and very vaguely Wilson wondered if he had entered into shock, which didn't surprise him all too much.

Even as he finally exited the heat and flames, cloak hot and suffocating but having been the only thing to protect him this entire time, Wilson felt almost unbearably cold. His shadow flickered, slithered unnaturally under his feet, but he ignored it as his eyes landed on the form nearby.

The way she had crumbled, crashed into the earth, blackened ash from her fire going out so suddenly, sent a thrill of revulsion and fear and some other emotion through him, enough to flip his gut even before the smell wafted over to him, stronger than the black smoke behind him.

Cooked meat, burnt flesh and singed fabric, a sickening concoction he swallowed thickly, mouth a thin line as he stumbled his way over.

His shadow twittered, light whispers as it followed behind.

_**‘don't look…’** _

He didn't know who said that, everything cold and shivery and all too blank for him to even try, and Wilson swayed to a stop, looking down upon the charred corpse curled pathetically before him.

Jaw open, pearly teeth, a silent scream to the dark sky, the rags of clothing hanging off of her bare blackened bones, and he found himself staring into those empty, lifeless eye sockets.

Only a bit ago, not even a full hour ago, he had been talking to a living, breathing person, wide pale eyes and twirling, whipping pigtails, a crooked grin and lighter flipped about in her hands.

He didn't even know her name, Wilson remembered, looking down emptily at the skeleton. He didn't even know her name.

The fire raged behind him, crumbling the decrepit building and eating it away quickly, the heat unbothered by the cold, frost hinted gusts of wind, and Wilson tightened his hands onto his cloak, the breeze picking up and flapping the edges of the protective fabric all about him. The warmth was starting to fade from it, and to replace it was the dull stinging around his wrist, the prickling pain in his palms and the throbbing ache in the back of his head, twinging and almost maddening. 

The flames light flickered around him, his own shadow weak and spun about aimlessly, like a stringless puppet, and then something flashed out to him.

In the corpses charcoal black hands, skeletal fingers ashen, was something shiny and metal.

Curiosity got the best of him in the end, and Wilson hesitantly shuffled closer to get a better look.

Somehow, in some way, the lighter from earlier, plain white flower gazing mockingly from its undamaged surface, was still clasped in her hands.

When had she picked that up, he wondered vaguely, distracted now. Or had it been in her clothing, a pocket maybe, and she took it out?

What, before or after she had fallen? Or, maybe, even during the fall, a moment with something precious to her, in her last living moments, if that could even be called living?

Either way, it was unmarked, undamaged, not even coated in ash or dented, just held loosely in those dead hands atop a hollow rib cage and the destroyed remains of her wear.

The wind blew, hard, for a moment, before dying down around him, quiet save for the tower and its death throes. 

And then he heard something, a sound to break through this cold fog.

Sirens.

_**“leave, now!”** _

_“take it!”_

Both voices, loud, sudden, enough to jitter Wilson into motion, and in one swift move he scooped up the lighter, brushing ashen skeletal fingers away from it without hesitation, a sense of revulsion only hitting him a split second after the act, but by then his aching feet were taking him away from the scene. His stumbling walk, the smoke ashy smell clinging to him, was incriminating enough, and the bulky lighter, warm metal almost pleasant in his stinging hands, was even more evidence; he had to leave, now.

The fire raged on as he slipped out into a back alley, away from wrecked courtyard and crackling wood and steel beams, the groaning of something that should have long been flattened as it was taken by the flames. His shadow practically sang underneath him, stretching and slithering even as the light became sparse and few in between, making distance from the tower, from the destroyed floors and stairs and rooms, from the crumbled up little corpse at the foot of a burning wood and steel skeleton. 

His path was set, the darkness whispered, and Wilson numbly averted his gaze and walked on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That specific scene, of Willow falling, had been the biggest part of my weird dream.
> 
> Lemme just say, it was a hella cool dream.


	2. Intermission 1, or Talking to Strangers

The shaking of the bus woke him up, fog in his eyes as Wilson blinked awake to empty seats and clean walls devoid of plastered ads.

The bus shook under him, the rolling of the wheels, and he wrapped his hands in the cloak about him, drew it close, though there was no chill in the air. The back of the bus was rather lonely feeling, he realized slowly, almost absentmindedly. No one here but him, and seated in the middle he could look all the way up the aisle, all the way to the empty front.

His attention was drawn to the windows, looking out into light, white blindness, flashes of green and yellow and orange, trees? It hurt his head, to look, so Wilson turned away, gaze returning to his lap.

His hands held something, not too large, not too small, flat and rectangular. It was striking, in the crisp, bright interior of the bus, but its black surface didn't stand out on top of his bunched cloak, his hands holding it carefully.

When had he gotten this again?

The big red etched ‘M’ shined up at him, almost glowing, and Wilson frowned. This wasn't his, was it?

And his hands looked a little odd, blinking at his fingers, all dark and clawed up. That wasn't right, he was pretty sure.

Just as his slow mind was about to break through the fog, the bus’s breaks squealed, a jolt in the vehicle that made him have to brace himself, hold the book down to his lap as the metal contraption shuddered. The wheeze of its doors rattled in his head, and then there was a shifting of weight, feeling the bus dip as it was boarded.

Wilson realized that he shouldn't lift his gaze, a cloying, foreboding feeling rising from his chest to his throat. He fought it, for a second, squinting his eyes as he shivered, but then footsteps, two pairs, one slightly slower than the other, started making their way towards him, steady and deliberate.

For a moment, he felt genuine terror.

And then it faded, as if it had never been there to begin with, and Wilson lifted his head up ever so slightly and caught sight of high heeled shoes, the swish of a dark, pitch black skirt, and that was enough sight for him.

The newcomer hummed, quiet, but it seemed to echo, ring in his ears, and then a soft hand patted him on the shoulder and sat to his left, getting comfortable by his side.

The second pair of footsteps approached, slower, and shined black shoes entered his dipped vision, cuffed pant leggings, striped dark, and there was a hesitant moment before, again, a heavy hand tapped him on his shoulder, briefly, before sitting down beside him, this time to his right.

The two sat close, pressed to his sides, almost awkwardly, except Wilson realized that he didn't feel uncomfortable at all. It was rather odd, but this felt normal.

Like he was the only one really there, three in one.

Before he could sluggishly try to figure that out, the presence at his left cleared her throat, polite and light.

_“How have you been doing, dear?”_

He almost shrugged, but decided that would be too informal and instead dipped his head, still staring to the his lap, to the book in his hands.

“Well, thank you. Yourself?”

She twittered out a laugh, bubbly almost, and Wilson could practically imagine her face for a second.

And then it was gone.

_“Ever the gentleman, even here and now.”_

She didn't answer his question, instead hummed, and brushed a hand over his shoulder, down to his wrist, and he could see gloves, skillfully crafted, tap his hand and almost light over the book.

And then draw her hand away, fingers curling in an almost flinch, as if it hurt her. Wilson's own hands tightened their hold, and he narrowed his eyes, keeping them firmly on the tome. He couldn't let it out of his sight.

There was a cough, fake and shallow, to his left, and he tilted his head ever so slightly, just barely seeing the form of the person beside him, pressed to him just like the woman.

**“I see you've been busy.”**

A hand reached over, gloved in leather, but instead of going to the book it fiddled with his cloak, pinched the fabric.

Wilson watched, suspicious. There were burn marks, blackened scars, over where the hand touched. 

**“You could have been more careful...”** The voice trailed for a moment, the pressure of being pressed between the two increasing for a moment. **“I do so like this coat.”**

For a moment there was silence, and then Wilson lightly slapped the hand away, drawing his cloak closer.

“You are not getting it back.” There was certain hint of steel in Wilson's voice, something faintly angry still.

 **“It's yours.”** sighed the man, tiredly, and instead leaned against him just as the woman hummed, drawing his attention back.

 _“You are doing so well, deary.”_ Was that a hint of sarcasm? _“I have to say, I'm pleasantly surprised of the outcome we've had.”_

“Why shouldn't you be?” Wilson answered sharply, a scowl on his face as he stared down at the book in his lap. 

**“Not everyone is perfect, you know…”** There was movement from his left, the woman jerking up straight, and he could just imagine the look she gave the man as he quailed, still pressed to his side but feeling as if he cowered now. **“But I suppose there are exceptions.”**

_“Of course.”_

“Of course.” His voice mumbled back, fighting the sudden urge to cough, throat itchy with a stuffy rash of a feeling. He raised a hand, to press to his forehead and then drag to his eyes, a strained sigh escaping him.

When had he gotten so tired?

The attentiveness of the two on either side of him was thick, and the weight of hands going to his shoulders, a squeeze from the left and rubbing gently on the right, and it was almost draining, a static black feeling in his limbs.

“...I feel just terrible…” It felt more like an obligation, to say something, but he pressed a hand to his face, eyes closed, the other still tightly gripping the book close. The bus shook underneath him, and even with his eyes shut he could still see the blind whiteness flashing outside, moving and yet standing completely still.

A hum from his right, but it was the woman who answered him.

_“That's alright, dear. This is just a dream, after all.”_

**"And it will be all over, soon."**

Wilson groggily tried to open his eyes, tried to sit up from how he was sagging over the book, the two bodies holding him up, hovering, but the strength left him in one dizzy moment and two pairs of arms wrapped around him.

 _“Wake up.”_ **“Wake up.”**

 

***

Wilson shot awake, a shallow gasp escaping him, hands clasping white knuckled into the fabric of his cloak.

The bus rattled, wheels bumping on a worn road, and the mumble of quiet conversation filtered through to him, the hustle and bustle of other people seated around him. His sudden wakefulness seemed to not have been noticed, or more likely has been politely ignored.

Glancing around, slowly, still trying to get his breath back and curling the cloak close, Wilson finally cleared the dream fog from his head, blinking as he looked out the window to get his barings.

Early morning, it looked like, and a few trees passed by along with buildings, roads and other cars, people walking and going about their business. Nothing out of the ordinary, Wilson leaning back into the seat he had all to himself with a relieved sigh. He closed his eyes a moment, trying to quell whatever fear left over from that dream, or had it been a nightmare? He hardly remembered it now, faint color and blinding white and that sense of foreboding, but it had given him such a scare.

He did take a moment to glance to the back of the bus, a feeling of checking around rising fitfully in his throat at the thought that something was still there. But it was mostly empty, a passenger hunched in one corner, the other seats about them scattered with seated people, together and alone. 

Wilson pulled the cloak close, up to his chin, the fur lining tickling his neck as he pulled his legs up on the seat, curling them and getting himself into a more comfortable position. No one else was seated near him, so it was alright to be a little rude.

And he was just so damn tired still…

He tried to ignore the faint whiffs of smoke still clinging to the coats fabric, instead looking up to the map posted of the buses routes, the big one near one of the sliding doors. He traced the red lined path he was taking with his eyes, flinching for a moment when a loud scream rose up before he recognized that it was just an unhappy child nearby, wailing in their parents arms.

The sounds of the bus just seemed to get louder from there, and Wilson found his hands curling into fists, gritting his teeth before he forcefully turned himself to look out the window, watching the trees and cars go by.

His stop was close, but not nearly close enough. He couldn't go back to sleep however; the nightmares plaguing him have been getting worse and worse, leaving a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, and having another so soon was not what he had in mind.

When the bus slowed, screeched to a halt, loud shrieking of the brakes and the wheeze of the doors opening, Wilson did straighten up a moment to eye the new passengers. But nobody came aboard that even incited an ounce of familiarity, and the cold darkness under his cloak, the flashes of his shadow on the metal plate ground underneath his seat, did nothing, nothing whatsoever.

If he really wanted to, he could even say that the silence was a nice change. But the babble of loud talking people, obnoxious laughter, ruined that pretty quickly.

Thankfully no one sat by him, but maybe his haggard, unshaven appearance gave them enough warning, along with the faint hint of smoke that followed him like a cloud now

Wilson hunched his shoulders as people passed by, avoiding eye contact. He hasn't been able to take a shower since...since the fire.

That bulky lighter was with him, still, and he didn't like to think about it. His shadow held it when he couldn't, and it hurt his head, seeing that unnatural movement, the laws of light and space bastardized for the explicit purpose of somehow being his personal bag. He had tried to ask questions about it, but for some reason he was being ignored and given the cold shoulder.

Again, Wilson was not complaining about that. The quiet, of only his own thoughts in his head, was a blessing. But being completely shrugged off like this was a little disorienting.

Especially after...after what had happened.

He curled his hands into fists, the faint pricks of pain from his palms weak and fading now, healing. Something, again, to do with shadows, with waking up suddenly in his hotel room to find clawed hands wrapped around his own and not letting him go until they were done doing whatever it was they were doing, no matter his whispered panic and struggling. But his skin wasn't red raw or bubbly anymore, the pain practically gone, and the only thing he could think to do afterwards was whisper a quiet thank you.

But he hadn't been able to fall asleep for the rest of the night.

The mark on his wrist stayed, however. Red and sore, but not nearly as bad as his hands had been, the palm print the only thing to stick to him since his encounter with that woman.

That monster, he corrected himself, looking once more out the window and not truly seeing a damn thing. A flaming abomination.

There was a subtle tug on his cloak, from the floor where his feet had been, and Wilson glanced around a moment before carefully looking down.

There was no shadow, down there, but the bulky prize he had taken sat there like a brick, metal glimmering from the morning light flashing into the bus. The flower gleamed up at him, the ash and char still stuck to its surface as a grimy coat, and after a moment of hesitation Wilson leaned down and scooped it up in his hands.

No one was looking at him, no matter how many times he looked about him, but he checked anyway before opening up his cloak and putting the lighter in his lap, fabric covering it from view.

Even after so long from the fire, the metal still felt heated, his healing palms pricking with discomfort. It almost felt dirty, holding it in his hands, the vague thought of the last pair that held it floating through his mind, of flame broiled bone fingers, charred black and crisp. The thought made him feel uncomfortable, his own hands wrapped about metal in mock imitation almost, but he didn't let it go.

It was supposed to be a prize of sorts, a souvenir, but in all reality it felt more like a...a gift, somehow.

An ugly, awful gift heavy with its past owners death, but a gift nonetheless.

The bus rumbled, wheels rolling over a bump in the road, and Wilson leaned his shoulder against the window, heaving a heavy sigh, lighter in his hands.

The last week has been terrible, god awful getting away from that place, away from that city, suspicious, nervous glances behind his shoulder every time he passed by someone, flinching at sirens and shouts not even for him. But he was getting distance now, checked out from the hotel and gone as quickly as possible, shadow whispers spurning him on. 

With them silent, quiet, maybe he's gotten away from the worst of it. Maybe he was lucky and really did get away with all that.

Arson and murder, Wilson thought dully, eyes cast downwards to the lighter in his lap. But it hadn't really been his fault, right?

She had set herself on fire, somehow, and then made everything blow up, not him. And it hadn't been him to throw her off the building either.

She fell all by herself, so he wasn't at fault for any crime besides witness!

Wilson assured himself of this, gut twisting in guilt and anxiety. Some innocent bystander he was, running away from the scene like that, stolen property in his hands!

But it was over now. She was gone and the shadows were silent and maybe it was going to be all okay now. He'd not have to do that again, that was for sure!

Wilson closed his eyes, pulling the cloak close about him, one hand in the fabric and the other clutching at his prize.

It was all over now, right?

***

Fog, shadow on his tongue, and the night was dark, dark, dark.

He knew exactly where he was, and he strode forward with purpose, hands behind his back, shadow baleful as a half moon hung above, shed no light in the pitch black. A slow hissing filled the night, accompanying him, as loyal as ever, and his teeth ground hard against each other, pain in his tense jaw.

A campfire light flickered ahead, flame small and shallow, guttering under autumn cold.

The figure sat up, dark silhouette flickered over by orange light, and she couldn't see him just yet but her wide, white eyes watched him anyway, followed the sound of his footsteps to her little, humble abode.

It wasn't much, not even his signature machine, and he clucked his tongue, tsk tsk tsk, which echoed and made her flinch back a moment just as he stepped into the no man's land of light and dark, where the firelight had all but faded away from the nights embrace.

She crossed her arms, huffed and turned away to side eye him, a pout on her crooked lips.

“I was havin’ fun you know.” She jerked her head to the campfire, guttering slowly and weakening without fuel, pigtails swinging on her back. “And ya just have to ruin it all, every time, huh?”

He felt his face pull, into a grin, though it sagged on him like a baggy mask, trailing and stretching wrong, and the shadows withered and tugged at his clothing, ran their claws through his hair. Even here, so far away, he remembered how harshly tight those bands about his wrists and ankles felt.

And he remembered how much he hated it, narrowing his eyes as the woman closed her eyes, heaving a sigh.

“You're just makin’ it harder for yourself, you know that, right?” She chewed on her lower lip a moment, eyes opening to stare at her dying fire, before suddenly she jerked up straight, as if realizing something. “Wait wait wait wait.”

She patted her clothes, checked about her grass rolled sleeping mat, even daring to reach out into the steady creeping darkness, him taking those slow, easy steps forward to match its pace.

After a moment she whirled about, the sound of a whip and her pigtails slashing through the air, shooting up into a defensive stand, hands curled into fists by her sides.

“Give it back!” She was angry, and he could almost imagine the fire in her breath, the smoke. “You son of a bitch, give me my shit back!”

She actually took a step forward, a risk, and he could feel shadows tugging at his grin, the shift of his silence into something more predatory. 

“Give ‘em both back!” This time she had a wobble in her voice, wide blank eyes blinking hastily, growing wet, and she was shaking, taking a backwards step as the fire behind her shrunk, coughing the last of its life away. “You can't just take them away, I need them, give them back!”

Her voice pitched, hysterical, and then the shadow hand creeping up from behind wrapped up about her body, tight to her neck and gasping that last wheeze out of her, just as the fire finally puffed out.

He was still grinning, couldn't stop even as a choked scream broke through, and that dark static warmed over him, closing his eyes to its tune.

This was much, much better.

***

Wilson woke up slowly, a buzzing static, and his ears were still ringing vaguely. For a moment, he didn't know where he was, nor did he much care, dream fogged mind trying to catch the wisps of the dream from escaping him.

And then there was hushed giggling nearby, low whispering, and he was awake, dream gone.

Wilson sat up, cloak falling from his shoulders, and he realized rather belatedly that he had fallen asleep. Again.

He kept doing that at bad moments, rubbing his eyes as he remembered why, exactly, he was at a park.

A few more days, another week, and the shadows still have not given him anything yet. The pocket change he had left was running low, and he was starting to feel the ebbs of panic and worry. They've always provided, leaving bundles of ill gotten gifts by his feet after sleep or coins slipped into his palms while walking down the street, but their silence was now becoming something even more foreboding.

And he had wandered his way to this place in the early morning, maybe hoping it would egg on the things withering under his feet into action. Easy pickings, right?

The very thought made his gut twist. He never thought he'd have to stoop so low.

There was another smattering of giggles, and then something poked him in the back of his head.

Wilson almost fell off the bench he was on, the quiet calm that had him after a much easier sleep disappearing in a flash, and he scrambled to the side to look over at whoever was probably attempting to assault him, pulling his feet up and getting ready to flee in a hurry.

Two children stared back at him, round eyed and a little surprised. And then the little boy burst out giggling, pressing his hands to his mouth to try and quiet himself. 

The little girl, on the other hand, face blank and eerily emotionless, carefully took the stick she had in her hands and hid it behind her back, maintaining eye contact with Wilson the entire time.

He was a little too surprised to even start to say something, sucking in a breath as he started to untense, automatically pulling the cloak about him a little more securely.

“We're sorry, we're sorry!” The little boy giggled, waving his hands at Wilson, before reaching over and, taking the girls wrist, led her around the bench to stand before him, the boy still snorting a little as she discreetly left the stick behind. “We- I- was afraid that you were dead! And we were just making sure!”

“The stick was my idea.” The girl was staring at him steadily, unnerving in a weird, odd sense, and Wilson took a moment to compose himself, clearing his throat. 

“What got into your head that a stick was a good idea? If I was dead, it would have been much easier to tell, I assure you!” His voice had risen a moment, a spark of anger and irritation, but then the boy shuffled close to the girl, almost as if to move behind her, and even though her cold expression did not change he realized that maybe yelling at two children he did not even know was not such a good idea. 

He huffed, looking away for a moment, before getting a hold of himself.

“I am a complete stranger, you two should not even be talking to me. Don't you kids know anything about stranger danger?”

The boy brightened up, the unease fading from him just as quickly as it had appeared, and he grinned at Wilson, a few of his crooked teeth missing in his wide smile.

“Yeah, we know all about that! Mom keeps telling us- me- to pay attention all the time, and to know who's around us too!” A sudden thought occurred to him, and he grabbed the girls hand and hopped up and down, looking between her and Wilson. “We should introduce ourselves, then we won't be strangers anymore!”

Before Wilson could try and dispel that idea, already deciding that maybe he should get out of here before the twos parents came around, the boy reached his hand out, held it to Wilson with the biggest smile he has ever seen on a kid.

“We're- I'm- Webber, pleased to meet you!” he didn't even wait for Wilson to take his hand, suddenly turning to the girl and waving at her. “And this is my best friend-”

“Bereave.” Webber stuttered for a moment, before some sort of realization entered his eyes and he grinned at Wilson, almost sneakily.

It took a second, but he realized rather suddenly that these were most certainly not their true names. Smart kids, he supposed.

“So what's your name?” 

Wilson floundered a moment, trying to think of something quick enough, but he was able to spit out an answer.

“Higgsbury.” Maybe not the best idea, a last name, and the girl tilted her head, eyes narrowing, but he's already said it and it was almost automatic, to keep talking. “Gentleman Scientist. Er, nice to meet you?”

“Ooo, what's a gentleman scientist?” Webbers eyes had gone round, but the girl elbowed him and interrupted before Wilson could even try to figure out an answer.

“We are dreadfully sorry to have bothered you so, Mr. Higgsbury.” 

Wilson waved his hands, shaking his head as Webbers face fell at his friends words.

“Oh no no no, it's alright! You just...startled me, is all.” He hesitated a moment, scratching his chin in thought before a more chastising tone entered his voice. “But poking people with sticks is very bad manners, you know. You children should know better at your age.”

“We're very sorry, Mister Higgsbury!” Webber burst out, almost looking teary eyed. “We won't do it again, we promise.”

“...don’t speak for me, Webber.” The girl mumbled under her breath, looking away and crossing her arms, but the boy didn't seem to hear.

“Please don't tell our parents! We really, really, REALLY don't want to get into trouble!”

Uh, okay. A little desperate for a, what, 9 year old?

“Like I said, it's alright!” Webber looked just about to burst into tears, and Wilson floundered a moment, fighting the urge to get up and try to reassure the kid. Thankfully Bereave(?) came to the rescue, patting her friends back with an expression that might be concern but was hard to distinguish on her face.

She did throw a semi nasty glare to him, though, and Wilson almost flinched at that.

“I won't be telling anybody, Webber, I swear. As long as I don't get stabbed with a stick again, then everything is fine and you needn't worry.” 

The boy seemed to calm down, rubbing at his eyes and taking a deep breath of air, before giving both him and his friend a wide, if a little shaky, smile.

“We- I- am really sorry, Mister Higgsbury. We just got...carried away.” His face scrunched up when he said that, as if the meaning of those words were lost on him but he knew them well enough anyway, and Wilson heaved a relieved sigh.

“That's alright Webber, it happens to everyone.”

Having some random kid burst into tears in front of you could be rather distressing, and that's no telling what would have happened had their parents been nearby.

That reminds him…

“What are you two doing alone out here anyway? Where are your parents?”

The two spoke up at the same time, Webbers answer more enthused.

“At home, making dinner!”

“In hell, I hope.”

The girls answer surprised even Webber, and the boy turned to her, hands on his hips and pouting face staring at her.

“That's not true, Wen-” He glanced almost nervously to a rather bewildered, mildly concerned Wilson, but then turned his attention back. “-Bereave! Your dad’s at home, we saw him this morning, an’ he's probably making dinner right now!”

“Hopefully not.” answered Bereave evenly, not breaking eye contact with her friend. For a moment there was silence, Webber frowning at her, before she dipped her head. “Father is terrible at cooking.”

Webber huffed, scratching his head in thought, before he nodded. 

“Well, he does burn it an awful lot, doesn't he?”

Before the two could continue on in their tangent, Wilson cleared his throat, curling the cloak about him more securely and sliding off the bench to his feet.

While this was...interesting and all, he really shouldn't dally for too long. Seeing someone looking like him talking to two little kids might alarm a few people, and he really didn't need his face to be remembered right now.

The scarred hand print on his wrist, hidden by the long, rolled sleeves of his coat, was still all too new. The smoke smell might have faded, but a building engulfed in flames, a corpse at its feet, wasn't going to leave public eye for at least another few weeks and, maybe, if he was unlucky enough, a whole month.

“It's- it's getting kind of late, isn't it?” He absentmindedly looked up to the sky, the park trees leafy canopy letting light beams slip through. 

“N...no?” Webber looked at him in complete confusion.

“Morning is nearly over, but not the day.” Bereave added, eyes narrowed, and Wilson laughed nervously.

“Oh, uh, silly me. I've been here for a bit, must not have been paying enough attention!” His laugh faded, both kids looking at him, one in childish concern and the other...well, it was rather hard to tell. Wilson has never been the best with kids. “But, that does mean I have other things to do besides chit chat, you know.”

“And fall asleep.” added Webber, and his face relaxed as he glanced back to his friend. “We should probably go too, right Wen- I mean, Bereave?”

A full minute passed, in utter silence besides the ambience of the surrounding park, and Wilson fought the urge to shiver. This little girls glare was quite something; almost felt like it was cutting him to the bone, and he nervously smiled at her, trying to not come off as dangerous.

Because, for the life of him, for some reason he felt as if she was feeling very, very threatened by him.

“...Yes, Webber. It is time to go now.” She didn't even grace Wilson with a goodbye, turning on her heel and marching away, down the parks path and towards one of its many entrances.

Webber blinked, confused, before swinging around to give Wilson a smile, feet already moving as he waved.

“Goodbye, Mister Higgsbury! Sorry about waking you up!”

Wilson hesitantly raised his own hand, slowly waved back as Webber voice rose the further away he got.

“See you some other time, maybe! Bye bye!”

Wilson stared after him a moment, feeling suddenly a little unbalanced and light headed.

For a brief moment there, he was sure he had seen...something else, besides just a little boy rushing after his friend.

It almost looked…

Wilson shook himself, gritting his teeth. No, that wasn't quite right.

It wasn't possible, and he decided that maybe he should go take care of himself for a bit instead of sitting around waiting for shadows to do that for him.

And, ha, as if such a thing could even exist anyway.

Giant spiders, pah! Must have been a trick of the eyes.

Or just the shadows. Wilson glared down at his own, quiet and unassuming as usual.

“You're not any help, you know.”

His shadow didn't answer back, but at this point he didn't even know if that was a good or bad thing anymore.


End file.
